


big houses

by poetofthefall



Series: small revolutions [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Progress, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, building a life together, continuous support and facing your problems helps tho, hank is a millennial, hank is basically a sad bastard, unfortunately twinks don't cure depression, who knew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 05:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15700560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetofthefall/pseuds/poetofthefall
Summary: Connor doesn't need a bedroom. Connor insists that he doesn't even need a couch, just a roof over his head, but something about that rubs Hank the wrong way. Android or not, he's a person. He should have his own space and a modicum of privacy and the freedom to fill a bunch of empty shelves with whatever meaningless bullshit he damn well pleases, right? And the thing is, there's a room in Hank's house that's not being used.Hasn't been for about ten years, now.





	big houses

**Author's Note:**

> this is for you. you know who you are. 
> 
> in which connor makes a choice and gets some hobbies, and hank has a good morning and a very bad night.

**November 11, 2038**

 

**[Task Completed: Cancel control override]**

 

"Brother," Markus calls him with a smile, snowflakes melting against artificial heat as they brush his cheeks. His voice is gentle, painfully so, against the roar of cheers in the distance. "Come with us. Our people have won our freedom, but there's still so much to be done. I could use your help."

The warmth in his mismatched gaze is nearly unbearable. Connor can still feel the memory of a gun against his palm, his body moving without his input, against his will. Markus has no idea how close to deactivation he has come at the hands of Cyberlife's own deviant hunter. The sensation of guilt is novel; a heaviness in his chest, a reluctance to meet Markus' eyes. Connor's gaze flickers away from the other android and skims over the crowd, nearly a hundred thousand androids blurring together in a haze of white Cyberlife appointed outfits and grinning, crying, disbelieving faces. Lately, he has experienced more emotions than he would have liked to, but when he tries to define what feeling rises up at the sight, he is unable. It is bright and fierce and floods his system with its intensity.

Markus is correct. The fates of himself, of the sea of people in front of him, are still uncertain. Connor knows he's in a unique position to be helpful; he was programmed as a negotiator, and he is sure he will be counted as one of the leaders of the rebellion during this evening's broadcasts. He could do good. He could have a purpose again, now that he's run out of objectives to complete. _"Maybe you'll be the ones to change the world."_ Hank's approving voice plays back as Connor looks out on the horde of newly awakened androids. Maybe he would. Except--

Except that Connor doesn't particularly _want_ to. There are more important things to him, which is probably morally incorrect. A memory replays itself; the image of Hank sprawled on the floor along with a bottle of whiskey and a revolver loaded with a single bullet. The thought of that scenario repeating itself sends a violent jolt through Connor's system, not unlike the sensation of his Thirium pump being ripped from his chest. He doesn't know exactly when Hank's continued survival became more important than his mission, but it had, and Connor doesn't want to leave him behind. He wants them to continue on as they had before, working together, teasing each other. Perhaps even becoming friends.

Connor's optical feedback pauses for a fraction of a second, a new primary objective springing up in the corner of his eye.  
  


**[   Find Lieutenant Anderson   ]**

  
He looks down instead of meeting Markus' steady gaze, flexing his fingers just to feel them respond to his command. "I-- thank you. Unfortunately, I have prior obligations. I wish you the best of luck."

"Obligations?" Markus huffs a laugh. "It's a bit late to continue on your assigned path, Connor. You've already broken free of your programming, and lead a revolution in the process. You have the freedom to choose for yourself, now. Whatever you want. Even if it's a third option."

"Yes, I know." A small smile tugs at Connor's mouth.  Markus is kind, and means well, but he knows what he wants. "I've made my choice."

 

**\-----**

 

**April 14, 2039**

Hank, for all his metric fuckton of faults, prides himself on being a decent human being. When Connor mentioned that he'd been staying in the newly retaken Cyberlife Tower since the revolution, Hank had offered his couch up on the spot, until the new Android Fair Labor Compensation Act passed and he could afford get a place of his own. As much as Hank was glad Connor hadn't run off with Markus and the others- and he _was_ , he kind of still couldn't believe the kid had chosen their partnership over the goddamn _revolution-_ , he didn't really _want_ a roommate to bear witness to the details of his miserable life. Especially not someone whose opinion actually mattered. It's just that thought of Connor spending his nights in an empty white room was just too goddamn depressing to handle, and it was only for a while, anyways.

Except that the bill passed in January, and Connor is currently attempting to coerce Hank into attending the department's annual spring softball game over breakfast.

So why is he still here? Hell, Hank doesn't know. He should probably ask, one of these days.

It wasn't that Connor had fit into his life seamlessly, 'cause he hadn't. It was like the bastard had thrown himself through the window, took a look around, catalogued all the things Hank liked or needed to get through the day, and decided to slowly, methodically replace them with vegetables and physical activity. Well, that was fine. The kid would wear himself out eventually; it wasn't like Hank's lack of effort to keep living was going anywhere. He'd spent the last ten years passively killing himself, after all.

It was just… less effort to go along with the whole thing while it lasted. Connor hadn't gotten any less single-minded since deviating- it was a 50/50 shot as to who would be more stubborn on any given day, which was saying something. And playing along made him happy, or something like it. And it was kind of nice to come home to someone again, instead of just his dog and his whiskey and the grim comfort of his mostly empty gun. And _someone_ had to teach Connor how to start behaving like a normal fucking person for once, not that Hank was having much luck with that. He'd caught the android licking one of Sumo's toys the other day. (He didn't even want to fucking know.) And seeing his partner gradually, clumsily, get the hang of personhood, being able to help him navigate life-- it makes Hank feel good. And… well, adding a few weeks onto his life was worth seeing Connor's stupid goofy face scrunch up into a lopsided smile whenever he went along with the 'healthy lifestyle change' bullshit without arguing.

"Hank, you have made a great deal of progress as far as your physical endurance goes. You are capable of running exactly ¾ of a mile before becoming seriously winded, which is more than enough to participate. It is good exercise. Plus, I think it would be… fun."

_That far?_ Hank thought, surprised and a little pleased with himself. _How's that for a 'healthy lifestyle change'?_

He raises an eyebrow at Connor from across the table. The android is in the process of reading through one of Hank's paperback books, and he isn't bothering to stop as he speaks. It's kind of freaky. "Fun? Huh. Don't think I haven't noticed you tuning out whenever I switch the channel over to watching sports, Connor. You don't think they're _fun._ I think you just want an excuse to be there so you can beat Reed's bitch ass, don't you?"

Connor's eyes widen innocently as they flicker over the page, but Hank knows well enough to recognize the twitch of his cheek as a restrained smirk. "Of course not. The purpose of this event is to encourage teamwork and cooperation. I just think it could do you some good."

"Yeah, well, I'm perfectly fuckin' cooperative, and you don't need me there just 'cause you want to go. You're a strong, independent robot who don't need no man. What're you reading?"

Connor huffs softly at the obvious change of subject, but lets it go without more of a fight. "Yes, you're a delight. I am reading Revolt Against the Modern World by Julius Evola. It has been… quite satisfying."

Hank starts to laugh so suddenly he almost inhales his coffee. He remembers that one, an old preachy transcendentalist novel about finding yourself and abandoning technology and shit. "What, you mean like, because he's against everything you are?"

"And yet I have managed to exist, yes. It's satisfying." There's a smile playing on Connor's lips, slightly smug. There are dimples involved. Hank finds himself starting to smile in return, and rubs his face like he's tired. He takes a long slurp of his drink instead. "Fuck. Androids with the capacity to experience _schadenfreude_. Maybe Julius had the right idea after all."

  
Sumo chooses that moment to shuffle across the room, shoving his big slobbery head onto Connor's lap. The android puts a hand on his head and, after saying hello, begins to explain the contents of the book to him as if giving a lecture on the subject. Sumo drools on his leg in reply, enjoying his ear scratches so much he doesn't even bother to beg Hank for a bite of breakfast.

It hits Hank with all the force of a freight train, out of absolutely nowhere, that this is… this is good. This is _nice_. He's… happy, he thinks, right now, and the thought doesn't fill him with the self-disgust and shame that it usually does. Actually, it feels like his insides are being smothered with honey, or some other sappy shit like that. Hank eyes the scene in front of him with something bordering on bewilderment.

Pale morning sunlight is streaming in through the living room windows, making everything glow a little yellow. The house smells like breakfast-- a spinach bell-pepper omelette instead of last night's greasy leftovers. Connor's voice has turned monotonous, falling into a steady rhythm of words without inflection or pause, like he's forgotten to sound human. He still hasn't stopped reading, hazel eyes catching the sunlight as they move and glinting almost green. It's soothing enough that sickly sweet coffee threatens to spill from Hank's _world's okayest cop_ mug as he relaxes. It's almost disgustingly wholesome.

_You should stay,_ Hank composes mentally, before scrapping that. Too needy. _Hey, if you wanna stay here permanently, that'd be just fine with me._ How douchey can he fucking get? _It's nice. Having you around. Maybe we should--_ Absolutely not. He scratches his beard uncomfortably. _Jesus, Connor, do you realize how creepy that thing you're doing is- If you wanna make my life miserable, might as well go the extra mile- Hey, you know you're always welcome-_

Hank grits his teeth and just throws the whole fucking thing out of his mind. It's stupid. Of course Connor knows he's welcome here. No need to make him feel weird about finding his own place.

_Just enjoy it while it lasts, this time._

 

_\-----_

 

**April 28, 2039**

 

He ends up going to that stupid softball game for the first time in a decade.

Connor does, in fact, run Reed into the fucking ground with inhuman precision.

_Fucking superb, you funky little android._

 

\-----

 

**November 13, 2038 - April 30, 2039**

It had taken time for Connor to adjust to the concept of free will, of doing things for no other reason than he wanted to.  The first week after moving into the lieutenant's house was… difficult. Having no objective was unsettling, left Connor restlessly assigning himself domestic tasks which, when completed, provided absolutely none of the satisfaction that his previous objectives had.  Eventually, Hank had snapped at him to _'Take a fucking chill pill, Connor, Jesus. My records don't need alphabetizing. Browse the internet or read a book or lubricate your joints, whatever androids do for self care. You're giving me anxiety just looking at you.'_

Connor obediently ran a search on _self care_ , which provided dozens of articles with helpful lists.

Scented baths were very prominent on most of the lists. Connor didn't see the appeal; though he did find the scent of Hank's body wash pleasant, squirting some in the tub and then laying in soapy water for half an hour had not been enjoyable at all. Listening to music had produced better results; though he was able to instantly access any information he pleased, when he asked Hank for recommendations,  the man had insisted on playing him his favorite records manually with a gruff excitement Connor had never seen from him before. That had been a very enjoyable afternoon.

He made completing the lists his primary objective. After two straight days of watching Connor run rapid-fire through baking, attempting art, stargazing, and painting his nails with increasing confusion, Hank finally figured out what he was doing and sat him down. _"Listen, Connor. You're going about this all wrong. Just find out what you_ like _doing, what gives you enjoyment, and do that. You don't have to be so methodical about it."_

_"My apologies, Lieutenant, but I believe there is a fundamental difference in how our minds work-"_

_"What, so you've never just done something because you've liked it? 'Cause you've wanted to experience doing it, instead of just getting it over with? That's what this whole free will thing is all about, y'know."_

_"I have." It sounds almost defensive. He frowns. "I found my work on the deviancy case very rewarding. I enjoyed connecting one fact to another, predetermining suspects' behavior and acting accordingly."_

_"Yeah? What about stuff that's not work related?"_

_Connor remembers the lazy drifting of tropical fish in their tank, watching the way light shone off their scales. Running his hand curiously over the rough fur of Sumo's back while he waited for Hank to get dressed. It makes him wonder, not for the first time, how early he bagan deviating._

_Hank takes his silence as an answer. "Listen. You're a person now. Or-- you were before, too. Shit, I don't know what passes for politically correct these days. Just focus on how the process of completing the tasks makes you feel, okay? Find a book you like, or hobby, or something. I'm sure you'll be back at the DPD in no time, but 'til then, it can't hurt to figure out who you are. Develop, uh, an identity…" He trailed off, mumbling. "...Sound like a damn therapist. Just have some fun, okay?"_

He figured it out, eventually. He wasn't ashamed of his identity as an android, or how it made him different from humans,  but he enjoyed defying his programming in little ways just to prove he could. Purposefully ignoring suspicious people he came across on his long walks through the empty streets, refusing to analyze them. Reading Hank's rare paperback books instead of downloading information, or reading from a tablet. He liked the feeling of paper against his fingers, and the process of reading. Not reconstructing the trajectory of a stick before he threw it for Sumo.  
  
At times, it is difficult for him to identify his more complex emotions, so he began a frequently-edited document detailing what effect different emotional responses had on his systems, how to identify them. This is a 'hobby'.

He likes getting to know Hank. He _likes_ Hank. He does not know why he's so pleased to learn that Hank enjoys his coffee with enough milk and sugar to kill a small child, or that he will be excessively, clumsily kind to a witness if they are emotionally distressed or young, but he is. Hank does not like answering questions about himself outright, so Connor mostly waits until the opportunity presents itself and offers his own opinion on something so that Hank will respond with his. This is another hobby.

He also enjoys verbally sparring with the man, using his inherent skill at negotiation to find out the best way to convince him to do something. Ensuring his health and safety brings Connor a great deal of satisfaction, though days when he is able to do this were few, and usually Hank ends up in varying states of tipsiness or drunkenness. Connor has, at least, never seen him play that _stupid_ game again.

(When Hank mentioned it, once, offhand, he referred to being alive as a result of _losing_ Russian Roulette. Connor identified and catalogued the feeling that gave him as 'dread'.)

Even so, it seems that Hank is beginning to cope with his loss better. Progress is slow, and nowhere near linear, which had been hard for Connor to handle at first. There were good days, sometimes a week's worth of them, and then his emotional state would take such a nosedive that Connor was unable to convince him to come to work before 2pm, or to shower, or eat. Hank's response to his persistence would range from exhausted, wordless acquiescence, to childishly ignoring him, to roaring at him to _fuck off_. Connor greatly prefers the latter to seeing his partner at a total lack of energy, unable to fight him. Overall, those periods are becoming slightly less frequent, and the frequency of his seldom-seen smiles are increasing.

This is why it is so surprising to find Hank sat on the couch with his revolver and a bottle of Black Lamb on the table one evening after work.

Connor's fingers experience some sort of error. The grocery bags he had been carrying in slip from his grasp, landing on the floor with a muted noise. Hank, slumped over with his elbows on his knees, does not move. The line of his shoulders under his grey hoodie is tense, despite the fact that the bottle had been half full when Connor had last seen it, and was now empty.   _No,_ he thinks, raw fear filling up his chest.

**[Hank** **  
** **]**

**St[op Hank From          ]**

**[           W]hy? ??**

 

Objectives pop up and disappear rapid-fire along with several error messages, his UI going momentarily haywire. His preconstruction grid springs up in a fraction of a second, without his input. Sprint forward, leap over the back of the couch, use forearm to balance mid-vault, simultaneously push Hank's face away, grab revolver, dodge flailing, throw gun across room, pin Hank by the forearms.

**[   Preconstruction complete. Activate? Y/N   ]**

**[** **_What? No._ ** **]**

 

Connor blinks rapidly as he exits the program. Only a second has passed in real time. Hank is still motionless, clearly in no immediate danger. Connor walks- _walks-_ over and sits next to him on the couch, legs pressed tightly together, hands folded in his lap. Hank turns his unsteady head in the other direction, refusing to look at him. A moment of silence ensues, filled with the soft patter of raindrops, which lasts only for 20 seconds but somehow feels as though it stretches on for longer. Apparently, Hank agrees.

"Well? Gonna fuckin' say somethin', Connor?" He drawls, jerking his head over so that he's looking forwards. Connor can see an exaggerated scowl weighing down his mouth, and his hands involuntarily tighten around one another. He does not say anything. He cannot find a response which won't hurt or anger Hank in some way. It feels like several of his components are melting. The lieutenant continues in the wake of his silence. "C'mon, man, I know you've got some kinda shhh… some kinda shit to say about this. You wanna scold me for not chugging a damn kale shake, instead of actin' out this miserable old routine?" Connor does not respond. A quick scan puts his own stress levels at 56%, rapidly rising. He cannot accurately judge Hank's.

Conversation lulls, the room filling with the muted sound of raindrops. Hank's breathing becomes labored. "Fine. Fuckin' fine, don't say anything, just sit there and look at me and disapprove. Not like I don't deserve it." A ragged huff exits his mouth which almost resembles a laugh. "I deserve worse, Con. For thinkin' this kinda shit while he's gone. For even fucking being here. What the fuck am I even doing." He buries his head in his palms and falls silent again.

Connor's mouth twists. He reaches out and picks up the shot glass that's lying on its side on the coffee table. After a quick glance at Hank's covered face, he runs his tongue along its rim.

**⌜**  
89.4% Black Lamb Scotch Whiskey,     
alcohol content 40%  
10.6% saliva: Anderson, Hank.  
blood alcohol content 0.23%                                                                
                                          **** ⌟

It isn't quite high enough to cause an immediate blackout, but it's close enough. Coming to a decision at last, Connor slips his arm behind Hank's back (it's radiating enough warmth that Connor can feel it through two layers of clothing), and stands. Hank grunts in surprise. "What the fuck-- aw, no, not _this_ again!" Unfortunately, this time, Hank is aware enough to put up a respectable fight. He pushes ineffectually at Connor's head, and then elbows him less ineffectually in the side. Repeatedly. Connor flinches and Hank takes that opportunity to wiggle away, stumbling back into the low coffee table.

Connor reaches out on instinct and steadies him with two hands curled around his soft sides. For a moment, warm, dry hands grip at the exposed skin of his wrists. Their eyes meet for the first time since they left work. Hank's are red and watery.

This is a heinous night. Connor wants it to end as soon as possible.

With inhuman speed, he breaks Hank's grip and lunges to his side. Blue eyes widen belatedly as one arm slides behind the crook of his knees and the other, his back. In seconds, Connor has lifted Hank off his feet, all 210 pounds of him, with no apparent difficulty. The lieutenant gapes up at him wordlessly, cheeks ruddy and eyes wide. Connor begins making his way towards the bedroom. It's not until they cross the threshold that Hank seems to find his ability to speak. "What kinda fucking power move..."

"You need to sleep, Lieutenant." Connor's voice is steely. He drops his partner onto the bed with more force than necessary, inciting a queasy sounding litany of curses.  "I'm not sleepy, you big dumb bucket of bolts," Hank slurs, sounding winded. "What, d'you think I'm just gonna… fuckin' sleep the sad away? Think tomorrow's gonna be better? That's not how this fuckin'works, and believe me, I've tried. This ain't gonna stop. Ever. Just give the fuck up, 's easier that way."

Connor's can see his LED cycle from a calm blue to bright, sharp red in the darkness of the room. Just once. Just for a second. He turns and heads into the bathroom to retrieve a glass of water, a part of their normal nighttime routine four nights out of seven. There were two new post-its stuck to the mirror, one of them stained with what a quick analysis reveals to be toothpaste.

 

why are the little trees happy??  
because they have FRIENDS

 

honey, you got a big storm comin'

 

As usual, Connor is unable to glean any useful information from the assorted notes. He fills the glass next to the sink and brings it back into the bedroom across the hall in time to hear Hank mutter about his 'stupid fucking mood ring', voice muffled; despite his protests, the detective has moved up the bed slightly in Connor's absence to bury his face in a pillow. He doesn't move when Connor crosses the room to stand in front of him, keeping his face hidden like a child. Connor can't keep the annoyance from his voice. "You know how this goes, Lieutenant. Drink the water or you'll feel like shit in the morning."

It's enough to make Hank crack an eye open. Pale blue shines out easily against a reddened sclera. "Why d'you even care, Connor? Will you leave me alone if I promise to be at the-- in at the ass crack of dawn, ready for work? I can do that if the price to pay is no fuckin' babysitter. Won't interfere with the fuckin' work."

"That," Connor bites out, "Is not what this is."  
  
The eye slips shut again. Hank sounds exhausted, sounds a thousand years old, when he murmurs, "Then what? What is it?"

Connor's eyes lower. He puts the glass down on the nightstand, illuminating the dark room yellow as he tries to find a suitable response. What is this? _You knew I was a person before I did, are you implying I'm a machine, now? That I am here, that I do this every other night, just to have you at maximum efficiency during work hours?_ He cycles through responses, dozens of them, in milliseconds, discarding each one just as fast. He feels overwhelmed, unable to process the onslaught of negative emotions he's feeling.

"I want you to be okay." Connor finally answers, eyebrows drawing together. "I want to help you when you're not. I care about you, Hank. Not just as my partner, but as my friend. I thought you knew that."  

  
Hank is silent and still for so long Connor begins to think he's fallen asleep. When he does respond, almost a minute later, it's almost too quiet to hear. "You don't deserve this. Seeing this. Dealin' with me. What a fucking disgrace." He turns his face away from the pillow and huffs self-deprecatingly, then yawns, mouth opening wide enough that Connor can see his molars. "But havin' you here's nice anyway. 'S whole fuckin' thing... I was thinking, earlier, somethin'..."

Connor waits. Hank drifts off for a few seconds before jerking back awake. "You should stay. Instead of moving out. If… 'f you want."

Connor waits again. There is nothing else, though Hank drifts off and wakes up two more times in the ensuing silence, each time forcing his eyes open to look at Connor. The android keeps his voice carefully neutral as he replies. "You are far over the legal limit, Lieut-"

" _Hank_ , fuckin' Hank, okay, I get that you're pissed but fuggin… you only ever say that when you're pissed, these days. Stop it." It's almost a whine. Connor clenches his jaw and allows himself to snap. It's not as if Hank will remember this tomorrow, anyways, through the haze of alcohol and exhaustion. "You are in no state to be taken seriously. _Goodnight,_ _Lieutenant._ "

He takes a particular satisfaction in the crisp click of the door as he shuts it for the night, leaving the man behind it to the safe embrace of sleep. Although it's unnecessary, he takes a few deep breaths, trying to regain some semblance of calm. Perhaps he'll go into stasis tonight to avoid the empty evening hours, and the bleak thoughts they tend to bring when he doesn't have a case to occupy them. Hank prefers that he lay down across the couch when he does this, but he doesn't particularly want to indulge the man right now. Standing works just as well. With one more useless deep breath, Connor pushes himself away from the door, crossing the room. He picks up the fallen groceries and refrigerates the perishables. He picks up the empty whiskey bottle and puts it in the recycling bin, rather than having to see it first thing in the morning.  The revolver is burning bright in his mind, another thing out of place, but Connor ignores it. Rubbing his hands together uneasily, he closes his eyes, and enters his stasis program, eager to shut down his thoughts before they progress further.

...Or, rather, he tries to. The program refuses to start, and Connor feels the absurd, irrational urge to laugh hysterically. He runs a diagnosis, but nothing appears to be wrong, other than an abnormally high CPU usage and stress levels hovering at 68%. If he were anyone else- a human- he would diagnose himself with having too much on his mind to fall asleep. But he isn't, and that doesn't make _sense_. He's an android, and androids aren't supposed to work like that.

In the stillness of the night, he breathes out a quiet but heartfelt _"Fuck."_

Without the promise of a respite, his thoughts come creeping back, along with his least favorite emotion. Before deviating, the feeling of doubt was entirely foreign; no matter what, he had his mission, and the surety that he would complete it at any cost. The path ahead was not always straightforward, but it did always lead to the same destination- success. Eliminating deviancy. Only after breaking free of his programming did he realize that there were many paths, too many to name, and that he was responsible for choosing which ones he walked, and for all of the ones he didn't. Since that moment, there's been a black, sinking sensation somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, waiting until he is alone, unoccupied, to be heard clearly.

_What if you made the wrong decision? What if you're doing this incorrectly? What if this is just an error, a virus, after all? What if Hank can't be saved? What if Hank can't be saved?_

_What if Hank can't be saved?_

His eyes snap open. From across the room, they land on the Magnum .357. Morbid curiosity isn't what pulls him forwards, this time, but a sudden and irrevocable _need_ to know how close he has come to the end of Hank Anderson. To coming home and finding his cooling body on the floor. For a fraction of a second, he hesitates. And then he doesn't.

The gunmetal is cold against his artificial skin as he pushes open the cylinder latch.

All six chambers are empty.


End file.
